


Craving

by RedHorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (sorry Harry), Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Draco loves Harry, Harry Is A Horcrux, M/M, Neville loves Harry, Public Use, Right?, Sad Harry, Unhealthy Relationships, Voldemort loves Horcruxes, Voyeurism, close enough, dom/sub elements, past imprisonment, past trauma, reluctant but consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 23:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: Harry craves what he loathes.





	Craving

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote this. But I did, and I'm going to grudgingly admit it.
> 
> Please don't read this if you want me to be able to look you in the eye. XD

On the anniversary of their break-up, Draco and Harry had dinner.

Draco arrived first, which seemed strange. Harry had always been anxious about being late. But that was when they owed something more to each other, Draco supposed. He crossed and re-crossed his legs, and kept banging his knees on the underside of the table. He was too tall for ordinary furniture, and much too restless to bother adjusting anything. Judging by the menu prices, everything was outrageously expensive here and he shouldn’t have to heighten a table or lower a chair. Honestly, he’d made the reservation under a false name but surely one didn’t have to be a _Malfoy_ to expect...

Harry was coming in. He looked—he looked the way he looked. Average height, but strong, his tousled hair brushing his shoulders, lower lip caught between his teeth. He paused in the doorway and the magic ensured he saw Draco halfway through his first scan of the room, which was a testament to the sensitivity of the spells. It made Draco wonder if the table was spiting him on purpose.

It was one of those posh places where there were silencing and visibility spells around every table, making the occupants feel utterly alone. It puzzled Draco because when they were together, Harry had—understandably—hated that kind of thing. When Harry came over the boundary around the table, the room beyond dimmed to dark emptiness and all the sounds were shrouded too.

“Longbottom knows we’re doing this?” Draco asked, looking at Harry in a confusion of hunger and suspicion when the other wizard sat down.

Harry’s eyes had been steady, troubled, thoughtful, on Draco’s face since they’d first made eye contact. Draco had remembered this about Harry, as vividly as he remembered everything, try as he might to forget. Harry’s direct attention was quietly intense, almost unsettling. Heady. Draco looked down at his water glass and picked it up, guided it to his mouth, drank, swallowed. Harry watched.

“He knows,” Harry said, a few moments after Draco had set down his glass and was fussing with his napkin. “We don’t keep anything from one another.”

“And you just assumed I’d go along with it?” Draco snapped, making the mistake of looking full-on at Harry again. He was sitting upright in the chair across from Draco and his hands were folded in his lap. It made his shoulders seem painfully square, and in a flash Draco saw him naked, hundreds of times, in their bed, or even more often, on the floor.

It had been disconcerting to Draco at first, the way Harry wanted it. Slow only if it was grueling, torturous; more often, fast, punishing. Sometimes he begged Draco not to let him come, to leave him lying there until Draco was hard again—and again—and again—

“Well, you showed up,” Harry pointed out quietly. Draco blinked. He’d forgotten what he’d said, but after a moment he remembered. He sneered.

“Well, I’m unattached. If you want to be fucked, I suppose I can oblige you.” Draco realized he was tapping his toe and crossed his legs again to stop himself. He winced when he caught his hardening cock tightly between his thighs.

He hadn’t realized he’d been reacting to Harry, hadn’t expected it so soon. He was thirty-five fucking years old for Merlin’s sake. But at the thought of what they’d soon be doing he felt as eager as he ever had in his teens.

Harry looked around, the first sign of noting their surroundings. He wore a high collar. He fingered the thick fabric, then spread his fingers out to briefly grasp his throat.

Draco knew the gesture by heart. “You hate this sort of place,” he murmured. Harry didn’t look at him. _Of course_ , Draco thought, half-numb, a moment later. _That’s the point_.

He picked up the menu, his fingertips slightly hot where his magic pooled, reactive to the direction of his thoughts. Merlin, he was an idiot. Just when he’d begun to recover from Harry, here he was, leaping back in. Just for this meager scrap of an offering. Not getting Harry in full, but feeding his waning addiction with a single night so he could suffer the withdrawals all over again...

“You’ll have the seared vegetables and salmon,” he told Harry calmly. “And you’ll eat every bite.” He looked over the top of the page and frowned. “And stop fidgeting.”

”I’m not hungry,” Harry muttered, and Draco’s pulse spiked. He felt it, noisy as a drum in his ears. He reached out a long leg and placed his foot over Harry’s, so easy to find when he always sat so perfectly straight. Harry’s head jerked up and their gazes locked as Draco pressed the sole of his boot firmly down on Harry’s arch. The old break there must have made it excruciating. Harry’s eyes watered and his lips parted.

“I’ll eat every bite,” Harry promised.

Draco ordered nothing. They rarely ate at the same time, when they were together. Sometimes Harry would watch Draco eat an entire meal, without touching his own. Then Draco learned to set out two places at the table, ensuring Harry had a knife and fork and spoon and a clean folded napkin for his lap, and then have food brought only to Draco. It was best if the meal was all Harry’s favorites, and Draco ate without acknowledging that Harry was there.

This approach worked too; perhaps it even worked better. Draco watched Harry closely as he ate, or paused intermittently for sips of water. He made soft noises of correction when Harry hesitated and almost set down the utensils.

Harry was pale and ill by the time he was done. _He hated places like this_. But _Harry_ had chosen it, and Draco knew Harry now. For no reason Draco would ever understand, for Harry there was very little distinction between what he loathed and what he craved.

When his plate was empty, Harry looked up, green eyes furious, but his expression perfectly calm.

"Very good," said Draco. He drew back his chair, leaning back and folding his arms, finally stretching out his legs, spreading them enough to have a bit of relief. He was fully hard, straining against his fitted trousers. He could hardly keep from adjusting himself, but the discomfort might help him keep his wits a little while longer. "Now stand up."

Harry's eyes flashed, and Draco knew that he anticipated what Draco was going to ask. He felt a deep surge of satisfaction, one that had been absent from their encounters before. Draco was an excellent actor; he'd been trained for it all his life. He could be haughty and petty, he could be cruel. He would have done anything for Harry; a good act was hardly any strain.

But today he felt real delight at the thought of humiliating Harry, and it made him hate himself deeply even as his balls drew up tight as though he could come at a touch. He licked his lips and repeated himself but in a voice as low and mocking as he could make it.

"Stand. Up."

Harry didn't move, and for a moment Draco faltered. Maybe he'd misjudged. He sucked in a breath to say something, though he wasn't sure what it would be...but before he could, Harry rose slowly from his chair. He stood glaring daggers at Draco, but he voiced no protest. He wrote the letter, Draco reminded himself. He chose the place. He could leave any time. Instead he was standing there, his hands tightly fisted at his sides.

He wore dark clothing, fitted, as was Draco's, in the present style. His tailored robes hugged his waist and flared at the hip. They buttoned tightly to his navel and were open beneath.

"Show it to me."

Harry darted a glance around, but of course there was nothing to see.

"No one will bother us." When he formed this plan, Draco paid extra to ensure they weren't disturbed. He leaned forward slightly over his knees, willing Harry to look back at him, and when Harry did he put a hard edge in his voice. "Take it out, Harry, and show it to me."

"I could suck you off," Harry said, his eyes glassy as though confused. His hands jerked toward his waist and then fell away, as though he was battling the urge to obey. "I know how you like it. I'd l-let you come on my face."

It was a tempting offer, but Draco had been led astray before, and learned how easy it was to break the spell. He shook his head. "I don't want your mouth. I want you to entertain me. I want to be convinced that I have the slightest interest in giving you my cock."

It was outrageous to say it, hot and throbbing as he was, but with the table between them Harry couldn't see him. Of course, on some level, Harry _knew_ how much Draco wanted him, but he was always willing to buy Draco's act.

Until he wasn't. Until he left. _It isn’t real for you_ , he’d said miserably, as though that could explain anything. _I love you_ , Draco had insisted. _Harry, I do_. Harry had gazed back, so obviously wretched that it was impossible, in that moment, to be angry with him. The last thing he said, so softly Draco sometimes thought he must have misheard, was: _I think that may be the problem_.

But Draco didn't let himself think about that, except to the extent it inspired real venom in his demand. " _Now_ , Harry, or you may as well go home to that sweet wizard you left me for. Does he try to top you? I'll be that's a sight. Sweating over hurting you, pausing if you so much as cry out. He _adores_ you, doesn't he?"

Harry made a low, furious noise, and jerked at the buttons on his trousers to free himself. His cock was erect, almost lying against his abdomen, pale and pink against his dark shirt. Draco stared at it for a full second before he recalled himself and smirked.

"Look at you, pathetic whore. Already so hard. Stroke yourself."

Harry was so perfect there, staring daggers at Draco as he wrapped his right hand around his shaft and slowly wrung himself, that Draco almost couldn't bring himself to do it. But he knew he had to. He had to go further than he ever had, if he had any hope of convincing Harry to come back to him.

He drew his wand and tapped it on the underside of the table three times. A moment later, a very red-faced waiter stepped through the boundary of the magic to stand beside their table, trying very hard not to look at Harry, whose hand had gone still.

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Draco drawled, and Harry slowly began to pump himself again, whining low in the back of his throat.

"What's your name?" Draco asked the waiter, casually, since he hadn't yet bothered to ask. At the interruption, his own erection was withering, but he was filled with a different, rawer sort of energy at the sight of Harry gazing open-mouthed at the stranger, hand moving faster, his palm slipping over the head on the upward pass and twisting slightly as it came back down to the root of his cock.

"Lawrence, my lord," the waiter managed, trying so hard to keep from looking at Harry that Draco thought he might burst a blood vessel in his eye.

There was nothing impressive about him. He was entirely average-looking, around twenty, or young enough he had a few spots on his chin. He wore a waiter's uniform and balanced a tray in his hands, but he was so twitchy and nervous, Draco worried he'd drop it.

Harry was breathing heavily. Draco saw that his cock had begun to leak.

"Lawrence. I'm told you prefer witches, is that right?"

"Um," said Lawrence, rather hysterically. Draco snatched the tray impatiently from his hands and set it on the table.

"Answer," he said lowly. Harry made a whimpering noise, and Draco’s softening cock twitched with renewed interest even as he glared at the waiter, who appeared more homely the longer Draco looked.

"In th-theory, I prefer witches, my lord," said Lawrence.

"But a mouth," Draco said thoughtfully, leaning back in the chair and linking his hands behind his head in a casual posture. "One mouth is just like another, surely?"

Lawrence was unable to say anything in response to that, his jaw working soundlessly, revealing a row of crooked bottom teeth.

Draco turned to Harry. "Harry, shall we test my theory?"

There was a long, tense moment, where Lawrence stared and Draco stared back. He didn’t look at Harry, but he could imagine all the emotions warring in his face. Then, Harry dropped to his hands and knees and Draco’s blood felt hot and electric with satisfaction.

Harry crawled around the table to kneel at Lawrence's feet, his trembling hands gripping his knees, his face hidden. He was still hard, and the V of fabric at the opening in his trousers had caught his cock so it pulled tightly against the underside. His heavy balls were outlined by the snug fabric beneath. Draco breathed out unsteadily.

"Lawrence, may Harry suck your cock? I promise he's excellent, and his hair is very soft. You could hold him by the head, close your eyes, and imagine any girl you like."

Lawrence shook all over, and looked down at Harry with a combination of fascination and horror. Though mostly, Draco thought smugly, fascination. Draco had never wanted to share Harry, and the thought of doing it now still chafed. But there was also something indulgent about granting another the use of Harry's talented mouth.

"Lawrence," Draco said softly, and the boy jerked his head back in Draco's direction, his slack mouth quivering. "If he displeases you, we can stop at any time. What do you say?"

"Um," Lawrence said, then jerked his head up straight and closed his eyes tightly, as though it hurt to look at either of them. "Y-yes. I'll, um, try him." He shuddered all over at the admission. Then he flinched violently, because Harry's hands had set upon him instantly, loosening the buttons and laces of his flies.

"You're going to have to convince him, Harry," Draco said. "See how soft he is?" Harry had taken out a long, thin, flaccid cock. The sight of it made Draco wrinkle his nose in distaste. "Get him hard. I'd like to win this little wager I've made with myself. You'll help me do that, won't you? No, don't speak, Harry. Get your mouth full."

Harry obeyed at once. Like a crup with a treat, he fed himself the soft flesh and then took the balls in his mouth, too. They were small and round and Lawrence made a little "oh!" exclamation as they disappeared into Harry’s mouth. Lawrence’s shoulders slumped forward as though he could melt, a wobbly moan escaping him, and he sank his flailing hands into Harry's hair as Draco had suggested. Harry made little grunting sounds, interspersed with the wet slurp of his tongue, as he worked.

Draco took in the scene as though from a distance. Lawrence was scrawny and almost hairless between his legs. His wrists were bird-thin, the fingers half-lost in Harry's dark waves were long and spindly, knobby at each knuckle. He had his head thrown back now, and the line of his throat seemed extreme, the Adam's apple bobbing painfully.

"Maybe you don't wish to imagine a witch at all, Lawrence," Draco said kindly. "Harry's much older than you, isn't he? I wonder if he's the age of your boss, or an older brother? Isn't he handsome, too? I bet he looks like all the boys who picked on you in school."

Lawrence cough wetly, as though choking back a protest, but he dropped his chin to his chest and looked down at the top of Harry's head. Harry drew back suddenly and let Lawrence's balls spill out of his mouth. His cock was hardening rapidly and Harry could no longer keep everything in his mouth at once.

Lawrence's hands spasmed on Harry’s head. One of them fell to Harry's shoulder.

Draco realized his mistake at once, but far too late. He hadn't given the most crucial instruction to the idiot, and now...before Draco could say anything, Lawrence's fingertip touched Harry's the fabric of Harry’s stiff collar.

Harry's reaction was immediate. He fell back from nursing Lawrence's cock and landed hard on his arse. He cried out as though wounded, both of his hands wrapped around his throat, and the two of them stared at one another with equivalent degrees of shock while Draco looked on helplessly.

Lawrence's cock, now erect; Harry's messy face and the blank horror there; something snapped in Draco's head and all he saw when he looked at them was something *wrong.*

"Get out of here," Draco muttered to Lawrence, staring at Harry. Harry, Harry, whose eyes were going dull even as Draco watched.

"But..." Lawrence protested, looking down at himself as though he'd been woken from a dream.

"Get the fuck out of here!"

The boy pulled his uniform together and went.

"Harry..." Draco began, but Harry's expression had shuttered. He was rolling to his hands and knees, then he stood with his back to Draco, putting himself back together.

"This was a mistake," he said, his voice muffled against his arm as he wiped his mouth hard on his sleeve. "I—just—forget it."

Then Harry was gone, the magic was shifting and Draco was back in a quiet restaurant, alone.

****

Neville was pretending to be asleep when Harry got home. He stayed resolutely still and unresponsive when the mattress shifted and he knew Harry had joined him. Then he opened his eyes to the blank, half-dark wall he faced, and all the thoughts he'd been trying to keep at bay descended at once.

He'd wondered if Harry would smell like Draco, or just of sex. But that was ridiculous; he'd cleaned himself afterward, of course. He'd wondered if he, Neville, would regret saying yes as soon as it was over, but found he still didn't know. He felt only deeply confused.

He'd known it would be awkward. That he wouldn't know how to touch Harry or talk to him at first. But then, did Neville ever know how to do those things?

He was too old to be deceitful, not that it had ever come naturally to him, so Neville stopped pretending and rolled to his other side. Harry was lying on his back with the sheets drawn up to his waist, bare-chested, the moonlight coming in and falling on him. He had one arm thrown over his head, the other elbow bent so he could splay one hand over his throat. Between his fingers, Neville could easily make out the long silver scar that encircled Harry's neck.

"How did it...?" It seemed absurd, as soon as he started to ask. _How did it go? How was it being fucked by someone else?_ He couldn't say it, and Harry seemed to understand. Harry always understood everyone; it was understanding Harry that was the problem. He reached over to run his hand down Neville's shoulder, then his arm, and capture his hand.

"It was a mistake," Harry said quietly. He turned his head on the pillow and gazed at Neville through wet green eyes, the only color in the room. "I'm so sorry, Nev."

Neville made an involuntary sound of protest, squeezing Harry's hand. He wanted to get closer, but he knew better. He settled for rubbing Harry's wrist with his thumb, interlacing their fingers, and giving him a stern look.

"Don't be ridiculous. _I'm_ sorry. I'm sorry it didn't help."

Harry laughed mirthlessly, rolling his head back again to stare at the ceiling with a faint, unhappy smile. "You are the best person in the entire world."

Neville didn't know what to say to that, either, so he just held Harry's hand and waited to see if there was anything else Harry wanted to say.

There was a clock downstairs. It was the only one in the house, and Neville had never thought it was particularly loud. He never remembered hearing it from all the way up here. But he _could_ hear it now, ticking, the noise coming through the floor or drifting up the stairs and through the open door. Neville found himself looking at that door, pressed flush against the wall, and recalled visiting Harry shortly after he was released. All the doors in the house he'd been given were lying in a pile in the drawing room. Neville had come alone despite Hermione's anxious warnings that Harry might _unsettle him._ Neville had nodded politely, but on the inside, scoffed at the thought of any version of Harry which could _unsettle_ Neville. Then he found himself staring at the doors in dismay, wondering if she was right after all.

 _I can't be closed up_ , Harry explained listlessly.

Now the silence went on, marked by the ticking clock as an eternity. Neville was focused so intently on the ticking, and the black rectangle of the dark hallway outside the door, that he was completely startled when Harry spoke again.

"I wish he'd killed me," he said. He always sounded very far away when he said things like this, his fingertips tracing the necklace of the scar.

Neville's heart strained against his ribs with the effort it took not to argue. He placed his other hand around Harry's, so that he could cradle Harry's cold fingers near his mouth and kiss his palm.

"I know," he whispered back.

Then, because he couldn't help it, Neville added, "I'm glad he didn't."

Harry breathed out a laugh. He squeezed Neville's hand, and sounded wonderfully alive when he said, "I know."

Harry rolled against Neville's side, and Neville marveled at how small he seemed, how Neville felt he could wrap his arms around Harry twice, if they would bend in the right places. He slid his hands up Harry's sides cautiously, and Harry sighed and tucked his forehead against Neville's chest. "Will you fuck me, Nev?"

Neville froze, a sort of nameless dread clawing at his stomach, and Harry tilted his head back with a startled frown. Seeing Neville's face, he shook his head, slight and fast. "No, he—he didn't. I wouldn't ask you to...after..." Harry was blushing hard.

Neville, awash with relief, murmured nonsensically and smoothed Harry's hair out of his eyes, pressing their mouths together. He surprised himself by how badly he wanted to do as Harry asked. Maybe Draco hadn't fucked him, but Harry had wanted him to. Had wanted something Neville had never known how to give him.

"Yeah, yeah Harry," he murmured against the corner of Harry's mouth. "Yes, love. You know I always want you." He nudged Harry's jaw with his nose and Harry obligingly tipped his head to the side so Neville could kiss him beside his ear, then pause, as he always did.

"Please," Harry breathed, pressing Neville lower with a hand on the back of his neck. Neville sucked in a breath and laid his open mouth against the scar below Harry's ear, laving the ridge with his tongue. Harry shivered all over, spreading his legs, and Neville rolled between them.

Harry wasn't hard, but Neville had learned not to let that interrupt him. He could tell Harry was eager; it was evident in his hitched breaths and the way he held Neville's head so his mouth stayed against his skin. Neville stopped kissing him and just let his breath lance hot against Harry, trying to focus on blindly navigating the bottom half of Harry's pajamas, pushing his own pants down just enough to expose his cock.

Harry never wanted to be prepared, and there were things Neville wasn't willing to do, but he greedily delighted in pressing in when Harry was too-tight. It bordered on painful; Neville had, in this department, never been small, and when Harry was dry it was almost impossible. Harry groped for the nightstand and passed Neville the little vial of lube, and Neville left his neck long enough to rear back and put a judicious amount on the head, lightly lubing his shaft, shaking at his own touch.

He looked down at Harry, green eyes and moonlit skin, his hands tangled in his own hair as he gazed at Neville's cock with naked hunger. Neville's eyes stung. "Love you, Harry," he grunted, falling back on him and guiding himself to Harry's hole, almost desperate to be inside. "So much."

Harry lifted his hips and tilted his head back so that Neville, though substantially taller, could rest his forehead on Harry's as he breached him. They weren't kissing, but their mouths were close, breath hot and sleep-sour, but it was perfect. Neville slid inside in one steady thrust he thought might burst his heart, Harry twitching and whining the way he did when he was lost. He was getting hard, too; Neville felt Harry's cock brush his stomach and the feeling filled him with such primal satisfaction he could have come just then.

He didn't, though; it was still almost painful to be inside Harry, held so tight. He also revelled in the feeling, and thought that he could die happily if he could make Harry come like this, the way Neville loved it, Neville's cock deep inside him. Harry taking it, with boneless surrender though it had to hurt him, when Neville began thrusting before Harry could possibly be loose enough.

He reached back to slide his hand beneath Harry to the small of his back and adjust the angle. "God, Nev," Harry gasped. "Yeah."

It had never been like this, Harry hard and hot, trembling like he could come on Neville's cock. Neville thought, deliriously, that they'd turned a corner. He was almost blind with the joy of it. He panted into Harry's ear. "Can you touch yourself for me, love? Touch your beautiful cock while I—ngh—"

" _Yes_ ," Harry hissed, his hand twisting between them, his knuckles rasping against Neville's stomach in a furious rhythm that Neville did his best to match with his snapping hips, deeper than he'd ever dared to go, thinking faintly that he'd have bruises on his hips where they struck Harry's thighs, over and over...

Then Harry—his Harry—was coming between them. Neville came, too, and when the arm he'd been braced against abruptly gave out, his sweat-slick chest pressed against Harry's as the aftershock coursed through them both. He felt welded to Harry, and wondered if there was something magical about what had just happened. He fell asleep certain they'd been through something profound, and come out healed on its other side.

But in the morning Harry was gone, and this time he didn't come back.

****

End?

Or, alternate ending:

Lord Voldemort took the Ministry on the first day of the winter solstice in 1997. On the twentieth anniversary of the occasion, there was a gala in the palatial Riddle Manor.

It was the first time he'd entertained there, though he had painstakingly repaired the ruin with a care that only an expert and a descendent could have for restoration. The crest was redolently displayed above the ballroom doors in a mosaic of emeralds and onyx. Voldemort could cure his impatience with even the most tedious conversation partner by casting his gaze on it from time to time.

Of course, it wasn't the only sight in the cavernous room that attracted his eye.

Harry had shown up to these kinds of events every time Voldemort invited him, with the exception of the past two years, when he'd been absent from society, causing the gossips and the press to speculate wildly about what might have become of him. Voldemort had known only that Harry was alive and whole; the energy that linked his Horcrux and its master assured him of that. So he had exercised patience.

It was the same patience that had permitted him to remove Harry's collar on a spring morning more than ten years before, Harry staring incredulously at him and rubbing his throat. _I can go?_ he asked.

 _Yes_ , Voldemort said, and pressed the collar into Harry's palm, folding his limp fingers around it. _You may go. But one day, you will return to me. You will beg me to replace your collar_.

The green eyes went bright and furious. _That will never happen_ , he swore.

But Voldemort had known better.

Harry was speaking to the Weasley boy, whom Voldemort had exalted along with the other Purebloods, though some of his inner circle had pleaded with him to reconsider. It was an impartial decision, for the most part; if it might please Harry, it was a welcome side-effect.

He knew the moment Harry sensed his gaze; saw him stiffen. He wore his hair shorter than Voldemort had liked to keep it; but no matter, it would grow. As it was, it barely brushed the top of his fashionably high collar, buttoned snugly to just beneath his chin. But Harry didn’t turn his head.

Voldemort vibrated with the need to go to Harry, but instead he made himself wait. There was a satisfaction in waiting. Voldemort could see Harry’s face from every angle, the way his throat moved when he spoke, how he held a hand flat against his chest to compress his robes and squeeze through a particularly stubborn part of the crowd.

He thought of his delight the day he discovered Harry, delved into his mind to confirm his identity despite his misshapen face and found his Horcrux there.

Harry, his worthy vessel.

When the Weasley boy pressed Harry’s shoulder and walked away, Harry tilted his head to the side, then slowly pivoted to face Voldemort. The noise in the room took on a distant quality, as though through a fog, as their eyes met.

Voldemort had assumed nothing. Harry came to these functions before, but he was never anything but cool and distant. Tonight, though, Voldemort saw something new in his expression, and trembled with the need to understand exactly what it meant.

Harry began to walk, breaking eye contact in order to navigate the crowd, but looking up anxiously again and again at Voldemort, as though suspecting he’d disappear. He slowed as he broke through the last of the guests, and stopped those dozen feet away in the buffer of deferential space around Voldemort.

”Harry,” Voldemort murmured, closing the distance with slow, measured steps, his hands laced together behind his back. “Good evening.”

Harry seemed startled, or at least, without words. His gaze drifted from Voldemort’s eyes to his chin, then he stared at the floor between them.

“Have you nothing to say to your Lord?” Voldemort stepped closer, Well-aware people were beginning to fall quiet, to stare. In his peripheral vision Voldemort saw two distinct silver heads. He glanced carelessly at the pair of Malfoys, Lucius’ face cool and blank, Draco’s a raw wound.

He looked back at Harry, who still hung his head. “Well?”

Harry looked up sharply, a blush high and beautiful on his cheeks. He had his first few grey hairs, which might have alarmed Voldemort, had his own hair not changed color over the years also, still dark but streaked with steel grey. Since he’d inhabited a fully restored body, he’d been careful to assure himself of its lack of degradation, and it seemed to be fixed at the strength and vibrancy of a mortal man in his prime.

“Harry,” he said quietly. “You remember what I said?”

_You will beg me._

Harry breathed out in a rush, his strong shoulders trembling, and opened his mouth then closed it again, beyond words. Voldemort tried to control his thoughts, which were leaping ahead of them toward a moment when Harry might, at long last, lie under him willingly, Voldemort’s collar around his neck--and then, Voldemort had such _plans_ …

Harry stood up straighter, clenched his jaw with resolve, and reached for Voldemort’s hand.

It was unexpected; Voldemort’s eyes widened as he looked down at Harry’s hand on his wrist, his palm almost hot, slightly rough, his touch gentler and surer than it had been in Voldemort’s imagination. Harry pressed Voldemort’s palm to his throat and held it there with his own.

Voldemort felt it clearly, unmistakably, beneath the fine pressed fabric. The delicate metal of the collar, snug against Harry’s neck.


End file.
